Short Cuts
by Heidi Patacki
Summary: Circumstances lead the old gang back to their childhood neighborhood after more than ten years apart. A secret government project, an affair with Olga's husband, failed careers, secret flings, illegitimate children - its all here, folks! Rated R for adult
1. Default Chapter

Short Cuts ****

A/N: This story is rated 'R' for adult themes and language! It takes place when the gang is about 28 years old, so those R-rated things sort of go with the territory! But there is nothing explicit or ridiculously out of character taking place here. Enjoy!

Short Cuts

I followed the night

Can't stand the light

When will I begin

To live again?

One day I'll fly away

Leave all of this to yesterday . . .

What more could your love

Do for me?

When will love be through with me?

Why live life from dream to dream?

And dread the day

When dreaming ends . . .

Part One: From Dream to Dream

Phoebe Gamelthorpe dragged her feet across the hallway and reached the door of the small apartment on the upper east side that she shared with her husband of five years. She glanced at her watch in the dim light of the hallway: it was past three o'clock in the morning. She slumped against the shut door and sighed.

Curly thought she was having an affair, and she didn't blame him. Her work at the lab kept her out at all hours, and there was little information that she was allowed to disclose about her experiments. The rest of her team went home to their children and spouses around midnight at the latest, but Phoebe pressed on through the night. She couldn't tell Curly that she'd rather be at the lab, that she felt it was the only worthwhile part of her life. She'd rather he imagined an affair.

Phoebe let herself in and left her shoes in the foyer. She dropped her purse and her lab notebooks on the floor – she would leave them there, almost begging Curly to peek inside them. She wanted him to poke and pry, to be curious about her work, to press her when she told him that she wasn't supposed to talk about it. She wanted him to find out so that he could awaken the moral part of her that would put a stop to what she was doing. Yet Curly restrained himself. He stayed away from her notebooks, her mail and the cell phone they'd given her for 'top secret' calls. His loyalty made her feel even worse.

She grabbed her pack of Menthols from the top of the fridge, and let herself out onto the porch. As a child, Phoebe never would have envisioned herself smoking. She stayed away from drugs and alcohol in high school, and even avoided them in college, saving room for studying and getting plenty of sleep. Health used to be top priority, Phoebe thought with a scoff. If only she'd known that it would be all for nothing! 

Walking over to the right side of the balcony, she peeked in through the glass doors that led to the bedroom. Curly was lying on his stomach in their bed, one arm flung fitfully over the side as he slept. He was perfect for me, Phoebe thought, blowing a line of smoke at the door and watching it bounce off in a cloud. What have I done to him? She almost wished that Curly could be the one to have the affair – be it with his work or another woman – so that he wouldn't be so lonely, so crushed, when she could no longer offer him anything.

Phoebe walked to the balcony's ledge and tossed the cigarette over the railing, watching it catapult down forty stories to the noisy streets below. Three o'clock in the morning and downtown New York was still awake and honking. Phoebe sometimes missed the quiet burrow in Brooklyn where she and Curly had grown up. 

What did I think of him, then? Phoebe wondered. I was in love with that black kid, Gerald. He'd had problems with their differing races as they got older, though; he'd left her for Tasha, the high school homecoming queen who's skin matched his.

Curly, in the meantime, had been just another psychotic white boy, underachiever and class maniac, he was small for his age and wore unattractive glasses. In high school he blossomed while Phoebe faltered; Curly recognized his potential and excelled in science and history, but while Phoebe continued to make the grade, she began to have feelings of worthlessness, her optimistic philosophies were slipping, her parents were divorcing and Gerald was practicing affirmative action in the dating sense, leaving her high and dry just as she was beginning to feel her oats sexually. 

So she had needed Curly, then. They were in science club together, and they bonded during a token club trip to the aquarium, where they reminisced about having taken the same trip during elementary school. 

" My father is a fisherman," Curly had told her that day, " But I'm a naturalist. I could never hack the heads off these beauties, not for money or genetic loyalty." He'd put his hand to the glass, and Phoebe did the same. She could feel his healing energy reaching out to the fish behind the see-through wall, apologizing for his father's cruelties, and she could feel him reaching for her, too. 

She'd looked at him for the first time then – really looked, and saw not the wild little boy she'd known as a child, but a tall, lanky young man with floppy black hair and skin like pure snow, saved from the sun by his moralistic refusal to join his father at sea. His gray eyes strayed then from the fish and met hers with a jolt of electricity, and Phoebe felt the bridge of her nose flush red. 

She had been a bit reluctant to allow herself to have feelings for a boy again, after Gerald's easy dismissal of her had cost her an innocent piece of her soul. But by the end of high school she and Curly were having a passionate affair that felt nothing like puppy love. They would sit outside in the cold during lunch and eat from a thermos of miso soup that Phoebe brought, because they both hated the obnoxious noise of the cafeteria, the depressing lighting of the public school and the just-add-water food they served. When they were through Curly would pull her close and wrap the folds of his long, winter coat around her. With her face buried against his scratchy sweaters, Phoebe felt that she was home at last.

In stolen moments in the spring, Phoebe allowed him to come home with her after school while her parents will still at work. Though the sex they had in her narrow twin bed was amateurish, Phoebe knew that underneath the botched movements and quick finishes, they were 'making love', and she felt grown up and complete. They would lie together afterwards and try not to fall asleep, so they would not be found out, slumbering blissfully when her parents arrived home.

To keep themselves awake, they talked about the science of what they were doing.

" Human biology ruins everything," Phoebe said once, posing seductively beside him on the thin linen sheets. " Who wants to think about sex in the procreational sense?"

" Right," Curly said, rubbing his eyes and yawning, spent and not looking forward to the evening's homework and studying, " Its all the urge to further the species. That's what they tell us, anyway."

" You don't believe that's all it is?" Phoebe asked, testing him. She'd always been afraid to love a fellow scientist, afraid he'd shoot down her secret longings to cling to the eastern religions her father had taught her as a girl, to her hopes that she would live forever in enlightening cycles, every new body a chance at improvement or a step back in punishment.

" Of course not," Curly said, frowning and touching her shoulder gently, " If it were true, wouldn't educated blokes like us avoid empty pleasure, the whole idea of love?"

" I don't know," Phoebe breathed, almost sorry she'd brought it up, " Maybe we're fooling ourselves."

" I don't think so," Curly said earnestly, pulling her into his arms, " Science hasn't squashed my sense of spirituality and emotional purpose – if anything, its enhanced it. I mean, something had to put all of this work into the universe to make every little muscle tendon and water molecule we study reliable and constant, right?"

" Yeah," Phoebe said with a small laugh, squeezing him, " But what?"

" That's the great mystery," he'd said, " Don't think about it too much. I think it defies logic."

Phoebe scoffed to herself now as she thought of their long-ago pillow talk. She kept telling herself to go inside, curl up beside him and get some sleep, maybe take the day off tomorrow. She felt wrecked. But something held her there, kept her on the balcony, staring out at the jutting skyscrapers and crowded streets of the city, evidence of so many lives being lived simultaneously, and so many lived before.

She wrapped her fingers around the railing that separated her from the edge of the concrete slab she stood on. Phoebe knew what she was doing in the lab was wrong. She was destroying the very spiritual fabric of life that she and Curly had discussed in bed as teenagers. Taking the emotion out of humanity, making them efficient machines, bombardiers, the kamikaze pilots of the silent war in the making.

Phoebe shut her eyes. She knew android technology had been inevitable since the invention of computers. Electronic memory had paved the way for electronic people. But the project she was working on was too much, as often as she tried to deny it. She felt she was in the middle of a science fiction novel where people's ambitions had gone horribly awry: a field of mad science, of great leaps taken too quickly and carelessly.

Her grip on the railing tightened. She knew she would be dead before her project was finished, but just the few breakthroughs she'd made in the last years would haunt her forever. If the reincarnation and life debts that her father had spoken of were the true path of the afterlife, she knew she'd return to earth as a worm, squashed quickly beneath the steel-footed warriors she had helped to create.

Phoebe put one foot on the bottom rung of the railing. The cancer would take her in a few years, anyway. She thought of Curly's optimistic research, his life devoted to curing her, and she had to pinch her eyes shut against the cruelty of emotions, of hopes. Maybe we'd all be better off if our intentions were carried out by machines, she thought coldly, our evolution continued into the unfeeling territory of technology. The sad sap cancer research that an ineffectual man did for his ungrateful wife was too depressing to bear – bring on the machines, the indifference.

She heard the glass door sliding open behind her and she stepped back from the edge of the balcony, her hands slipping off of the iron railing. Curly's arms went around her from behind, and she shook with sobs, embarrassed, but her pride momentarily defeated for the sake of release.

" Phoebe," he whispered in her ear, squeezing her closer to him, " What are you doing? Come inside."

" I can't," Phoebe cried, " I don't deserve to live. The cancer is my life debt, Curly. God is telling me to turn back."

" Hey," he said, turning her so that she faced him. He wiped some tears away carefully, his gray eyes searching hers. " Quit it. C'mere." He led her inside, and Phoebe could feel his hand shaking on her back. He doesn't know what to do with me, she realized, I'm scaring him.

Curly had her sit on the bed while he removed her clothes, and then he tenderly pulled her into bed, into his arms, and yanked the covers over them. Phoebe shut her eyes and felt the soft fabric fall lightly onto her legs, felt Curly's hot skin against hers under the cool sheets. She sniffled weakly, and looked up at him.

" I'm sorry," she said. He stared at her, quiet for a long time. Phoebe twitched under his gaze, nervous about what he might say.

" I'm taking you home," he said finally. Phoebe blinked.

" What do you mean?"

" We're going back to Brooklyn," he said with a nod, " I think you need a vacation – God knows I do. We're both . . ." he trailed off for a moment, then kissed her with trembling lips. " We need to remember what we were."

Phoebe started to protest – her work – they wouldn't hesitate to hunt her down and kill her if she disappeared, her mind choc full of classified information.

Curly rolled over in bed, and she pressed her face to his back. She was willing to take the chance. What kind of life was this, anyway? It would be refreshing to see the old neighborhood. She wondered briefly, before she drifted to sleep, what had ever happened to her childhood best friend, Helga Patacki. She'd been a real hellcat, as a kid.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Helga pushed through the crowd at the ceremony, pulling on her stockings as she went. They were bunching up around her ankles – Miriam had told her to buy them a size too big for comfort. Comfort my ass! Helga thought, scowling at the backs of the scholars that chuckled in tight circles throughout the open auditorium.

She finally spotted Olga standing with her mother and two younger looking men near the stage. Olga's new medal shone brightly from its place between her perky breasts, swinging slightly as she moved in delicate laughter. Helga braced herself for the sloppy praise that was surely being piled on her older sister before she joined the group.

" Helga!" Olga beamed. Helga still couldn't decide if Olga's requisite elation at seeing her was phony or genuine. Perhaps that was her sparkling sister's greatest accomplishment – the ability to be not quite honest nor sneaky, to keep people guessing about what she was capable of.

" Hey," Helga returned her sister's smile – she was, admittedly, a little bit drunk – the free champagne at the door had kept her cheeks rosy and her thoughts light throughout most of the ceremony. " Nice speech."

Olga let some fake/authentic tears pop into the corner of her eyes. She said something about how important it was to her to dedicate this particular medal to 'Daddy'. Big Bob had died during his third bypass two years ago, and ever since, Olga had been fond of dedicating various awards to his memory.

" Oh, Olga," Miriam droned, half in the bag herself. She placed a hand on her oldest daughter's graceful back. 

" Where's Duncan?" Olga asked of her husband. They had been married for almost six years now. Helga had been having an affair with him for three.

" I'll find him," Helga assured her, " I need another drink, anyway." She pushed her way back toward the bar, where she figured Duncan would be sulking, sober but considering. His father had been an alcoholic – something that Helga proudly knew while Olga didn't – and he stayed away from alcohol for insurance purposes.

Sure enough, when she'd made her way past the sloshed celebrity geniuses that had been shaking hands on stage only an hour ago, she found Duncan sitting alone, looking at his hands. Helga sighed. He was not the love of her life, but she felt something for him that made her sad, made her wish that she could have the kind of relationship Olga had with him – emotionless and dull, but safe and appropriate, occasionally looking up from her photo sessions and business dinners to squeak approval at his quiet reverence.

Duncan Coy was the son of a prominent paper broker in Massachusetts, a cold man with a young wife who Duncan had gone to high school with. They no longer spoke to each other – Duncan couldn't stand to look at him after what he'd put he and his mother through, money or no. So he was cut off, broke, a lonely, unemployed and uninspired man before he met Olga. They met at Harvard, where Olga was doing a series of free lectures on Post-modern Japanese culture. Helga didn't blame Olga for falling for him despite his lack of motivation at the time when they'd met: Duncan was beautiful. She'd fallen for him herself, despite other things.

" Ahoy there," Helga said, pushing through another line of people to reach him. When she did this she stumbled, and caught herself on his shoulder. He turned to look at her and smiled. 

" Helga," he said, " I'm sad. Sit down." She hopped up into the bar stool beside him, and rubbed the back of his neck. 

" What's the matter?" she asked. Helga was a psychologist, she had her own office in the city and she did okay. Mostly she felt her field was a complete crock in the medical sense – people just wanted someone to listen to them. If they wanted to give her money in the meantime, that was fine. But with Duncan, her services were free.

He sighed, " Six months," he muttered, " Olga has been off of birth control for six months."

" Oh," Helga rubbed her knee, felt jealous but pushed it down. She'd told herself when she began this fling that she knew she was just Duncan's relief – that Olga was often away, that he was only lonely for physical contact, he wasn't looking for another wife. " And still nothing?"

" Nothing," he said, narrowing his eyes slowly, " I'm starting to think she's lying to me. I wish – I mean, if she doesn't want kids, why doesn't she just tell me?"

" Duncan," Helga groaned, beckoning for the bartender and ordering a martini with two olives. " You know what my opinion on my sister is. She'd rather love her trophies than a man, or a child."

" Don't say that," he said, watching hungrily as she drank her martini in a few gulps, " You're so unladylike," he remarked.

Helga burped, and rolled her eyes at him.

" But I take good care of you," she reminded him, trying to keep her tongue despite the fact that she was becoming rapidly wasted. He kissed her, and then glanced behind him.

" You do," he said, looking over his shoulder.

" She won't notice," Helga said dryly, " We're invisible to her when there are fellow world leaders around."

" Maybe so," he muttered, " But your mother has her eye on us, lately."

" Bull," Helga returned with a scoff, " Miriam wouldn't notice if I got a sex change. She's practically comatose since Bob died."

" God," Duncan said, " Families are so depressing."

" Then why the hell do you want to start one of your own?" Helga asked, her tone shifting to accusing. He shrugged, and smiled at her.

The auditorium started clearing out before too long, and Helga finished a bottle of red wine before Olga was finally ready to leave. The four of them got a taxi for the ride home, and Miriam sat up front with the driver while Helga squeezed into the back with Duncan and Olga. Duncan sat in the middle, and he sneaked a finger under her shirt as they drove. Helga wondered if he was doing the same thing to Olga, if he got off on playing them both at once. 

They rode back to Olga and Duncan's penthouse in Manhattan for coffee and dessert. Apparently Olga had made some lemon-frosted cocoa peppermint concoction. Helga was starving: she always got hungry when she'd had too much to drink.

She threw her coat on the floor when they arrived, and Olga quickly collected it, embarrassed for her sister, who was obviously trashed. Miriam wasn't much better – she went into the open living room and laid down on the couch, putting her feet up on some pillows that Olga had bought in India. Duncan sat on the loveseat, and Helga plopped down next to him.

" Its so nice for us all to be together at last," Olga gushed, oblivious, from the kitchen as she collected her dessert and poured the coffee. Duncan eyed Helga. She felt shivers move through her – they'd made love on this couch before, and on that carpet, in that kitchen – often while Olga was off researching the Egyptian tombs or the Hawaiian volcanoes, but sometimes when she was right in the next room on the telephone. 

Miriam was quickly asleep on the couch. Duncan reached over and ran his hand over Helga's thigh before Olga bustled in with the refreshments.

" Here we go," Olga said, fixing three plates and clucking her tongue at her mother, " I got this recipe from one of the Kennedy cousins."

" Ah," Helga said, feeling brave, " Name-dropping cake. The best kind." Olga laughed nervously. She heard Duncan suppress a snort of laughter.

" Well," Olga said quietly, " Since she's asleep – there's something I wanted to talk to you about, Helga." Helga raised her eyebrows, and scarfed down her cake. It was good – she wondered why Olga didn't win another Nobel prize for cooking - it was the only attribute of hers that Helga gave a damn about, the only work of her sister's that she saw the benefits of.

" Mom's house in Brooklyn," Olga began, daintily sipping her coffee, " Its really getting too cumbersome for her to keep up all by herself. And there's an opening here in our building – I thought maybe she could sell the old house and move into something more reasonable."

Helga laughed, " You want Mom to live here?" She saw Duncan's face go white – as if their relationship wasn't messed up enough, her sister wanted to basically live with her mother at age 32?

" I know what you're thinking," Olga assured her, " It will be hard to see our childhood home sold to someone else." She made a sympathetic face. Helga giggled. 

" Right," she said, rolling her eyes, " All the good memories."

" Olga –" Duncan began.

" What the hell do you want me to do about this?" Helga asked, cutting him off, " You need my permission to sell the house or something? I'd suggest asking for Mom's."

" Well," Olga said quietly, " You know how older people can be . . . set in their ways . . ."

" Olga," Helga said, rolling her eyes, " She'd do anything you told her to."

" Perhaps," Olga admitted, putting down her cup and straightening her responsible tan skirt. " But I was wondering if you could go into town this weekend and see about getting it sold? I would do it myself, but I've got conferences on Saturday and Sunday morning. And it would be just the perfect time to do it, since Mom is staying here until Monday."

" What?" Duncan asked, hurt, " She's staying here this weekend?" Olga nodded, frowning. " But I thought – I thought we'd be together this weekend, Olga. For God's sake – you just got back from goddamn Alaska, I haven't seen you in over a month!" 

" I don't understand," Olga said, frowning, " What's the big deal if Mom is here? I'll still be able to see you."

Duncan grumbled something inaudible and stormed into the kitchen. Olga excused herself and followed him in, and Helga strained to hear their quiet married-people argument. 

She gave up on eavesdropping after awhile, and thought about Olga's suggestion to go back into town and try to get the house sold. She knew it wouldn't be hard – houses in and near the city were hot objects these days, and the brownstone was still in good shape. She wondered if any of the 'old gang' was still in town – she hadn't seen most of them since high school, after she'd gone off to college in Vermont.

Namely, she wondered if Arnold was still there. She doubted it – she remembered him leaving for Boston after graduation. That Arnold. He was really something when they were kids – the object of her first fantasies, from girlish innocence to the more hormone-induced desires of adolescence. The boy with the cornflower hair. She laughed out loud when she thought of their one moment of intimacy after years of teasing and chasing him: a drunken tryst in Nadine's bathroom during an after-prom party. Helga rubbed her temples and wondered if the culmination of her love for Arnold hadn't set the tone for the relationships of her adulthood. Lately she felt like most of her relationships were nothing more than drunken trysts. Hers with Duncan was certainly going nowhere fast.

Suddenly Duncan came rushing out of the kitchen. He looked at Helga and grabbed his coat from the foyer. Olga came running after him.

" Duncan!" she cried, pools of black mascara staining her cheeks, " Don't go!" Despite her pleas her husband walked out the door and slammed it behind him. Olga collapsed onto the floor, sobbing.

" Olga," Helga moaned, rising and going to her sister as Miriam slowly woke in the commotion. " What happened?"

" He's upset," Olga cried, trying to steady her voice, " He's just upset. He didn't mean it. He's … he just needs to cool off."

When Miriam took over comforting Olga, Helga got her own coat and excused herself for the evening. She couldn't take much more of her sister's drama-queen act: what did she expect, when she took off for the four corners of the world and left her husband alone to wring his hands?

Helga pushed her way out of Olga's plush apartment building, only to find Duncan sitting on the steps outside, waiting for her. He stood and walked over to her. Helga noticed that it was raining – a light sprinkle that fell almost silently from the night sky.

" What did you say to her?" Helga asked. She was sobering up fast, and the cool rain felt good on her forehead.

" I told her I was leaving her," Duncan said slowly, frowning. " God. What will I do?" Helga thought about embracing him and offering him her couch. But he wanted to be alone with Olga. That was what this was about. He wanted to have Olga's baby, but she wouldn't coincide with his plans. Helga couldn't be his consolation prize; she was tired of being the too-easy second choice. She'd been second to somebody all her life.

She shut her eyes. " Its raining," she said aloud, and the cool drops poured down harder onto her upturned face.

" No kidding," Duncan scoffed. " So," he said, " Where are you going now?"

" Home," Helga said with a smile, and she felt a rush of warmth surge through her despite the chilly rain.

" To your apartment?" Duncan asked, fishing for an invitation. 

" Nope," Helga said, walking away from him, " Home for real." She decided to walk back to her apartment instead of hailing a cab. She would go back, take a warm bath, and then get some sleep before packing up tomorrow and heading back to Brooklyn. It would be a relief to spend some time in the old brownstone on Hill Street, a vacation from the big city and a chance to do some thinking.

She thought again about Arnold as she walked into her building and shook the water out of her short blond hair. She hoped he would be there, though she didn't know what to expect after more than ten years. She had a few things she still needed to say to the football head.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Arnold couldn't sleep. He was at Miranda's house, in her small-ish double bed, staring up at her plaster ceiling. Her bedside clock was a loud ticker: after nearly five hours of tossing and turning, every move of the second hand was like a deafening crack. He looked over at the clock in the semi-darkness of early morning – it was almost seven o'clock. He decided to get up.

He kicked the covers off his feet and shook his head. She kept her small house way too cold – he shivered as he climbed from the warm bed, goosebumps rising on his arms. 

Arnold turned and looked at her, still sound asleep, her arms collapsed around a hollow space where he had been lying. He'd met Miranda at his new job: a 'production assistant' on the set of a low-budget movie that she was starring in. It wasn't the next big thing – a stale coming of age story in which Miranda played the older sister – and he was mostly just a coffee boy, making runs to Starbucks to 'assist production'.

But they were lucky to have met: she the tainted, hopeful starlet, and he the sensitive, starving artist. Last night was their first official 'date' after weeks of flirting, and it had ended at 3 o'clock in the morning with a roll in the hay. Arnold vaguely remembered stumbling in the door last night, and could recall pieces of what had happened afterward: an awkward tumble into bed, his face pressed to Miranda's flat stomach. And the feeling of exhaustion afterward: he remembered that clearly, as he hadn't slept since.

Arnold almost hoped she would wake up to keep him some company, but she was a deep sleeper – a trait that he envied – so he pulled on his boxers and wandered out to find her kitchen, get something to eat. 

The light was on in the living room when he walked out of the bedroom, and the TV was blasting Saturday morning cartoons. Arnold frowned, and crept out further to investigate – when he peered around the corner at the couch, a be-speckled eight-year old boy with a bowl of Frosted Flakes in his lap stared back.

Arnold jumped. The boy took another bite of his cereal, chewed thoughtfully.

" You left your pants on the floor," the boy said, annoyed, pointing to Arnold's jeans, which had been tossed in the lobby during the process of undressing that had taken place from the foyer to the bedroom.

" Oh, shit," Arnold said, his cheeks burning into bright red circles. He didn't know Miranda had a kid – he realized that he'd cursed and put his hand over his mouth, " Sorry," he said. The kid rolled his eyes.

" I've said worse," he informed Arnold. He turned his attention back to the small television and continued eating his cereal. Arnold stood in his place, dumbfounded, wishing he wasn't wearing only his underwear.

Eventually he went into the kitchen and pulled out the orange juice, poured some with a shaking hand. He had a hangover and needed coffee, but he didn't feel like poking around in Miranda's cabinets looking for coffee components – who knows what other things he'd find out about her? She had a kid – what if she had a husband here somewhere, too?

Arnold timidly joined Miranda's son on the couch with his own bowl of cereal. They sat in silence for awhile, watching raptly as the road runner avoided Wile E. Coyote yet again. Arnold wanted to ask the kid his name, but he was afraid of giving the impression that his mother hadn't even mentioned him, which would probably hurt the boy's feelings.

" So," the kid said eventually, putting his empty cereal bowl on the coffee table in front of the couch, " Aren't you going to ask me if she brings home lots of guys?"

Arnold eyed him, " No," he said, " Its none of my business." The kid rolled his eyes, seeing through him easily. Arnold had the feeling he'd been through this sort of morning encounter plenty of times, and he had his answer.

" I'm Evan, by the way," he said. " And just in case you're interested, my Mom's real name is Louise Henderson. Miranda Brooks is just her 'stage name'."

" Oh," Arnold said, feeling cheated. For some reason he'd thought 'Miranda' might be The One. He was almost thirty, after all. It was about time to have some smart-ass, cartoon-watching kids of his own. " Well, I'm Arnold," he added.

" Yeah," Evan said, changing the channel, " I heard." Arnold wondered what he meant for a moment, and then vaguely remembered Miranda shouting his name last night during – he winced.

He sighed and finished his cereal. Is my life a mess? he wondered, leaning over and glancing at his reflection in the mirrored surface of the coffee table. This was the third struggling actress that he'd tried to have a relationship with this month. Was he just looking in the wrong places? He ran his hand over his cheeks – rough stubble scratched his fingers. 

Did he really go to college to land jobs buying coffee for low-rent producers and hack directors? Of course not – he transferred from Boston College his sophomore year to USC, starting over in the golden land of Hollywood, graduating with a degree in film and unfaltering confidence that out of everyone in his class, he would be the one to make it, to go far. But that was four years ago. And now here he was, on the sofa with a B-movie actress's illegitimate son, watching Road Runner cartoons.

" Oh," he heard Miranda's groggy voice in the doorway, and turned to see her leaning there, wearing a robe open over a white tank top and bikini briefs, rubbing her eyes and squinting at the two of them on the couch. " You're both up," she muttered, shuffling into the kitchen.

Arnold collected the two cereal bowls and followed her in. She was fumbling with a coffee pot, not quite awake yet.

" I normally don't get up this early," she said, yawning. " But Alik is coming over with the check at eight. He's got a flight out to Seattle at nine-thirty. The shithead. Figures he would apply himself and start making money_ after _we broke up."

" Who's Alik?" Arnold asked, and then: " I didn't know you had a kid."

" Oh, Evan?" Miranda said, waving a hand in the direction of her son, " He's cool. Alik is his dad, my ex. He's French. But not like, _classy_ French. Obsessed with stock cars. A real dick."

" Maybe I should put on some clothes," Arnold muttered, wishing intensely that he could be home in his own bed. Sure, his apartment was a dank hole-in-the-wall, but it was over an old-fashioned movie theater on Sunset, and it felt right to him. He had bird feeders on the window sill and shelves of old jazz records lined his bedroom walls.

" Why bother?" Miranda asked with a sly grin, " I like you to show a little skin, hon." She winked. Arnold felt suddenly like a piece of meat. Who was this woman? The doorbell rang.

" Arnie," Miranda said, calling him by his most dreaded nickname, the one that reminded him of his weird cousin from the country. " Be a dear and get the door, would you? I'm going to make us some eggs."

Zombie-like, Arnold did as he was told. When he opened the door a tall, almost middle-aged man with beady eyes gave him a once over.

" Not bad," he called to Miranda in a faded European accent, raising his eyebrows and giving Arnold a smart-ass grin, " Could stand to do some sit-ups, though," he said, pushing past Arnold.

" Shut up, Alik," Miranda moaned. Evan stayed slumped on the couch, chewing on his fingernails and not acknowledging his father's presence. Arnold looked down at his stomach. Sit ups? He sucked it in a bit.

" Bonjour, fils," Alik said to Evan, who glanced up at him, bored. " Comment vous aiment aller à un jeu de base-ball avec moi la semaine prochaine?"

" Huh?" Evan said, making a face at his father. Alik clucked his tongue reproachfully.

" Haven't been practicing your French, have you?" he asked with a condescending grin.

" Maybe if you spent some time with him he'd pick it up more naturally," Miranda spat from the kitchen. Arnold felt like he had accidentally woken up in the wrong house – now here he was, standing out of place in the middle of a domestic dispute.

Alik muttered something fiercely in French, and yanked a white envelope out of his pocket.

" Here's the monthly installment," he said coldly, and Miranda hungrily snatched the check out of his hand. " I wish you'd go ahead and marry again so I could quit this whole exchange. Who's the latest candidate?" He looked at Arnold disapprovingly, " This guy?"

" We just met," Miranda growled, " Lay off."

" Ah, you just met?" Alik scoffed, " What, he wandered into the house and introduced himself in his boxers?" Arnold heard Evan laugh quietly to himself on the couch. He opened his mouth to defend himself but couldn't come up with anything.

" I need to go," he said, to no one in particular. Miranda gave him a pouty look, but he ignored it and went back into the bedroom to get dressed. He searched the trashcan as he buttoned his pants, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found an empty Trojan wrapper floating near the top – all he needed was another pregnancy scare with a girl like Miranda.

" I'll see you later," he called to Miranda as he breezed past the kitchen, where Alik was reaching into the frying pan to sample some scrambled eggs with his fingers. 

" Aw, Arnold," Miranda whined, " You don't want to stay for breakfast?"

" C'mon, Mom," Evan muttered from the sofa, nervously adjusting his glasses, " They never do. Next time I'll sleep in," he added, giving Arnold a dirty look.

" Its not that," Arnold assured them, backing toward the door. He wanted to stay and apologize, to explain himself, for Evan's sake at least. But his flight reflex was kicking in and he obeyed it. He waved to the motley crew and whirled around, grabbed the door and felt a sense of freedom as soon as he was outside.

It was a bright summer day. Arnold's car was burning hot when he climbed inside, but he didn't mind. He felt slightly enlightened. Maybe he'd think twice before he went home with a girl like Miranda, now. 

He tried to remember the last healthy relationship he'd had as he drove home, past the palm trees and tattoo parlors that lined the streets of downtown Hollywood. In film school, most of the girls were wannabe actresses who either weren't going to make the cut because of weight problems or no talent. A few of the better looking ones got gigs doing aerobics in the background of Cindy Crawford's exercise videos, and they considered that their big break. Arnold found them disheartening. He missed Fiona, his girlfriend from Boston. He'd broken it off with her when he transferred to USC, and later attempts to crawl back to her were thwarted by her new boyfriend, Quinton, a loud-mouthed History major.

I should have stayed in Boston, Arnold thought with a pang of defeat. Maybe Fi and I would be married by now. He'd really loved her – she didn't play the guitar or act, didn't even write poetry with a pompous sense of melancholy. She was just existing, small and cute with a Mid-Western accent that just slew him. She drank hard apple cider on Tuesday afternoons and put up with his addiction to Dragon Ball Z. She wore yellow sweaters. He should have hung onto her for dear life, but back then he'd thought that since he'd found Fiona right off the bat when he'd started school in Boston, that he'd find someone else in California just as easily – someone more spectacular, someone who could discuss Chaplin and Lurman over Earl Grays.

Arnold laughed now at his former idea of the perfect woman. He sighed, and decided he needed to get his mind off of all of this for awhile. Maybe he needed a new job, too. He'd go for a run when he got home, he decided, past all of the celebrity mansions, silently denouncing their gluttony in a jealous rage. 

When he pulled up to the old theater that housed his apartment, he noticed someone sitting on the steps outside. Was that – his grandfather? Puzzled, Arnold parked the car and hopped out – sure enough, when he walked closer, he discovered that it was Phil, sitting right there on the streets of Hollywood, clutching an old bowler hat in his hands – wearing his best suit, his 'traveling' suit.

" Grandpa?" he called, jogging over when he saw the rare look of sadness on his usually jovial grandfather's face. Phil stood slowly and mustered up an insincere grin for his grandson. They embraced.

" Hey, short man," Phil said, squeezing him. Arnold could smell the boarding house and the neighborhood he'd grown up in all over the old man – memories came rushing back in a flood that threw him off balance for a moment.

" What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping back when he'd regained his composure. " Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

" I tried to call last night, kiddo," Phil explained, " But you must have been asleep," he rationalized innocently, " I'm afraid I have some bad news . . ."

" Its grandma, isn't it?" Arnold asked, his eyes filling. He surprised himself. He hadn't been very close to his near-senile grandmother in the past years, but the loss of her would still hit hard . . .

Phil nodded solemnly, " Pookie passed away on Friday afternoon," he explained carefully, " She went in her sleep. In her favorite chair, even." Arnold attempted a smile to make his grandfather feel better.

" She's in a better place," he insisted, an empty phrase that he wasn't sure he believed. " She's with mom and dad," he added, more earnestly. Phil nodded.

" I hope you won't be too busy to come home for the funeral –" Phil began gingerly. Arnold couldn't believe Phil would even assume the possibility that he couldn't make time to attend the funeral of the woman who'd raised him.

" Of course I can come, grandpa," he said, squeezing Phil's shoulder. " How soon can we leave?" he added with a scoff, " Its been too long . . . since I've been home. I need to get out of this city."

" We can leave for the airport now, if you'd like," Phil said, his face brightening a bit. Arnold placed his hand on his grandfather's back and asked if he'd like to come up for a drink while he packed a few things for the trip. He was thankful that he'd left Miranda's while he had – Phil didn't need to be alone for a moment longer. He knew that, despite their bickering, his 'Pookie' had meant the world to him. Arnold almost felt a flicker of jealousy, wondering if it was possible to have a love like that anymore. Wondering if it was possible for a guy like him. 

Upstairs, he hastily poured his grandfather a glass of cranberry juice and thought about the last time he'd been home. He'd bought a flank steak from Harold at Green's butcher shop, visited Eugene in the hospital, and gone to see Gerald play at the old jazz club on Eubanks Street. He remembered with some sadness that he and Gerald hadn't had much to say to each other, though they'd been friends from elementary through high school. But their lives had followed such different paths … He wondered how Gerald was doing now.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Gerald sat still at the piano bench. He was supposed to be warming up, but instead he sat silent, listening to the noises of preparation that broke the silence of the empty bar. The tiny details that went into the place before opening. Mark, the bartender, polished glasses at the bar – the sharp static of the sound of glass against glass clicked through the empty room. Nonnie, the owner, sat at the end of the bar shuffling through papers and answering the phone. Every now and then the piercing whine of the phone's ring shook the quiet air in the club before she picked it up.

Later, this room would be filled with smoke, noisy laughter and his own music. But for now, peace. Gerald shut his eyes.

He was supposed to visit his daughter, Timberly, today, but he didn't think he'd have time. He needed to spend more time with her, but she still felt like an alien to him. Maybe it was just his own denial in the face of having a surprise child. He'd named her after his sister, who had died in a car accident when she was 15. Annie had never known his sister, and she hated the name.

Annie had worked as a waitress in the bar, back when Gerald was still 'The Man', smooth with the ladies and the customers, taking home generous tips and suggestive hotel room keys. Annie's unexpected pregnancy had put an end to all of that. Six years ago she'd given birth to Timberly. 

Gerald had actually been there, seen his daughter born. It hadn't been the most tender moment – he and Annie weren't exactly sweethearts – but his daughter's newborn cries had brought tears to his eyes. He tried to remember those tiny moments when he saw her now - an uppity, strangely street-wise six year old whose mother was already training her to 'act white' so that she wouldn't be chastised by black kids for being so 'mixed', so light-skinned and sloppily thrown together. But she was beautiful. Gerald knew Timberly would never have trouble fitting in – beauty outweighed background these days.

He saw someone knocking on the front door and got up to let them know that the bar wasn't open yet – then he realized it was Rhonda. A grin spread across his face when he saw that she'd finally washed the fake blond dye out of her hair – her old color, raven black - which he hadn't seen on her since high school – hung in a short new cut, just barely past her ears. She returned his smile and waved.

Rhonda Lloyd was probably his best friend. She'd gone off to the big city right after high school and made it big as a model. Rhonda had class like nobody else he knew. She'd been a show-off as a kid, but grew more refined and mature with age, earning herself acclaim in all the right circles. A sudden passion for acting had led her out to Hollywood in her early twenties, where she'd dyed her hair blond and caught a few good parts right off – played Tom Hanks' daughter in the war movie du jour, then got the lead in an offbeat dark comedy with the kid from Terminator 2. 

But she got a big head, and started making some bad choices. Offered her own television sitcom, she foolishly took the job and accepted the writers' idea that she help fund the project. Rhonda lost both money and face after the sitcom bombed, and ended up washed out at twenty six.

Her parents, who were constantly going through extreme ups and downs, had lost all of their money yet again, and moved to Pittsburgh to try and start a restaurant chain. They were doing okay for themselves now and they helped Rhonda out when they could. She lived in a tiny apartment near the old elementary school and did what she could without attracting much attention – cleaned houses, waited tables at the bar, avoided the lure of posing topless for quick cash. Gerald gave her free piano lessons every Thursday. Her new, more humble dream was to play piano and sing at the Rainbow Room or the Plaza downtown.

" Hey, girl," he greeted her with a hug, and tugged at her new hairdo, " You look great. Its about time you let your roots take over."

" Yeah," Rhonda said, rolling her eyes, " Who was I kidding, right? But I don't know. I need to get used to this again," she looked at her reflection self-consciously in the glass on the bar's front door.

" Well, you look about ten times younger," Gerald told her, and she did. She was like a ghost image of the girl he'd known in high school – her former, bright-eyed, self, strutting her stuff on mini cat walks at the mall for traveling designers. Rhonda grinned.

" To go with the new coif," Rhonda said, walking inside and taking a seat on one of the small bar tables, " I have a new mastermind scheme!"

Gerald rolled his eyes. Rhonda was her father's daughter: she always had some get-rich-quick plan on the backburner while she scrubbed other people's toilets for a living. But while her father's projects were hit or miss, Rhonda's were usually miss.

" This is no-fail stuff, Gerald," she insisted, snapping her fingers at Mark and asking for a martini with two olives. Some things never change. " I can make an easy $5000 bucks for next to nothing!"

" So what's the catch?" Gerald asked, sitting down opposite her.

" No catch!" Rhonda insisted, " All I have to do is sell my eggs! Let some other couple use them for in-vitro fertilization." 

Gerald rubbed his chin, " I've heard of this," he said, " They make you take hormones, you know. You might gain some weight."

Rhonda shrugged and rolled her eyes, accepting her martini from Mark. " I can always just get liposuction after I have the money!" she said with a wink. " And I've given up on dating, anyway. This neighborhood has completely dried up. Who's left? Harold? _Mark_?"

Gerald glanced at Mark, who was wiping down the counter of the bar – he'd always had a crush on Rhonda. But then, who hadn't? Even Curly had black-mailed her into dating him when they were kids. Rhonda had always been the most beautiful girl in school – next to maybe Lila.

" God," he said, remembering the pig-tailed cutie with a smile, " Remember Lila? From high school?"

Rhonda laughed, " How could I forget?" she asked, " My fresh-faced rival for prom queen. Of course I beat the little bitch into the ground," she said with a wink, 

" And your girlfriend, Tasha, too." She sighed, " Those were the goddamn days, eh? You got a cigarette?"

Gerald shook his head, " I quit, remember?" 

" Oh, yeah," Rhonda mumbled, examining her nails.

" I remember Arnold chasing Lila around," he said, " Ever since fifth grade. Man, that girl drove him crazy."

" And then she went and lost her cherry to Kevin O'Fallen on prom night," Rhonda said with a snicker, " He freaked out."

Gerald shrugged, " I don't blame him," he said, " He'd been dating her for years, her waving her ' I must wait until marriage' bullshit in his face, stringing him along. Then with Kevin, just like that – man, he flipped."

Rhonda nodded, " We were all drunk as hell," she said, finishing her martini

" Whatever happened to Lila?"

" Who knows," Gerald said, rolling his eyes, " She probably married that asshole Kevin out of principal."

Rhonda grinned wickedly, " Did he ever tell you what happened that night after he found out about Lila and Mark?" she asked, popping an olive in her mouth. Gerald grinned – Rhonda was so gossipy.

" Yeah," he said, helping himself to her second olive, " With Helga." Rhonda laughed.

" I can't believe he had her in Nadine's bathroom," she said, " For crying out loud. But she was always so in love with him, I'm sure it was alright with her. And its not like my own little fling with him was much classier."

Gerald raised an eyebrow, " You and Arnold?"

" What, I never told you?" Rhonda said, her eyes sparkling, always glad to relay new information, " Arnold and I met out in Hollywood when I was still acting. He was in school out there, doing some bullshit documentary for his thesis. He asked me to narrate it, I told him to go to hell. I mean, I was making hundreds of thousands of dollars per picture, then. Anyway," she said with a sigh, " We ended up having sex in the backseat of his car, for old times sake. It was a convertible, top down. I felt like a slut, but, hey – Helga told me he was a great lay." She ran her finger around the top of her empty martini glass, " He didn't disappoint."

Gerald faked a shudder, " Quit it, you're grossing me out," he said, making a face, " That's my childhood best friend you're talking about!"

Rhonda laughed, " What, are you still picturing that little kid with the tiny baseball hat and the shirt that looked like a kilt?" She winked at him, " He's a real dish now."

Gerald shrugged, " I saw him last year," he said, " He comes to town from time to time to see his grandparents. If I'd have known the two of you were such – old chums – I would have invited you out with us."

" Yeah," Rhonda said with a chuckle, " Come find me the next time he's in town. Unless he's made something of himself by then. I don't think I could stand to have him be the one showing _me_ up."

" He's really the only person I still see from high school, save you and Harold," Gerald said, his eyes growing dark, " Haven't seen Phoebe in years."

A knowing smile crept across Rhonda's dark red lips, " Your old flame." Gerald nodded, and felt the familiar punch in his stomach, crack in his heart. He'd loved Phoebe intensely, even as a child. But he was so jealous of her. He couldn't keep up with her grades, her sobriety, her perfect reputation. So he grew an attitude. He started playing football, and decided she was too nerdy for the likes of him, Gerald, God of Cool. He was an idiot. He told her that dating her made him feel like a traitor to his race. What a load of crap.

" You know who she married?" Rhonda asked, sitting back, probably thankful that she didn't have any 'old flames' that could drag her over the coals of regret from time to time. Gerald knew.

" Curly," he said with a sneer, " Totally bizarre. I remember seeing them at prom together. She looked . . . happy."

Rhonda sighed, and grew distant. " What might have been," she muttered.

" Yep," Gerald said, looking at the floor. Phoebe, the great and maybe only love of his life. After her, he dated only empty-headed girls, to boost his self esteem and serve as accessories to his greatness. He wondered if Phoebe was still as happy without him as she'd looked on prom night, over ten years ago. 

To be Continued in Part Two!

A/N: As you've probably realized, there will be a 'Clash of the Titans' of sort when the PS-118 gang meets again in the old neighborhood. Look for it soon!

And a note about 'She's Killed Again!', my other work in progress: I like the story, but there are certain things about the first chapter that I want to change. So I might come out with a revised version after I finish 'Short Cuts'. Sorry for the delay! ~Mena


	2. So We Meet Again

Short Cuts

Short Cuts

" You said:

'You're not like the rest'

And I nodded

'No one understands me'

You said,

And I nodded once again,

As if to agree that,

__

All men are indeed the same:

'Somehow,' you said,

I was different."

-- William Shatner and Ben Folds, 'In Love'

Part Two: So We Meet Again

It wasn't the right kind of day for a funeral. Arnold stood at his grandmother's fresh grave with Phil beside him, somber and silent, his eyes lowered respectfully to the ground. A couple of the old tenants had shown up, too – Suzy, who had long ago divorced her dead-beat husband Oscar, showed up with her boyfriend, and Ernie and Mr. Hyuh also came to pay their respects.

It was late afternoon and the summer sun was still in the sky, casting sweet, beautiful shadows across the tombstones. Arnold had never been to a funeral – he'd always expected dark skies and thunder in the distance. Now, he could only hear the bells of the ice cream truck in the distance, and feel the warm rays of sun on his cheeks. He felt cheated, he wanted gloom for such a mournful day.

Arnold looked across the landscape of the small burrow cemetery. Rolling hills gave way to a pond toward the back, where he and Gerald had gone as kids to feed the ducks that resided there. His eyes found a woman kneeling at a grave near the pond in the distance, and he wondered which relative or loved one of hers had died.

The priest finished his short blessing of Gertie's grave, and Phil knelt down to touch the dirt that covered her coffin.

" Goodbye, Pookie," he whispered, and tears filled Arnold's eyes. He had to look away, to let the dipping orange sun burn his eyes clear. Phil looked up and placed a hand on Arnold's leg. The boarders that had attended the funeral were respectfully backing away, letting Gertie's family members be the last to leave.

" Could I get a second alone, short man?" Arnold's grandfather asked, and he nodded silently, pushing back more tears. He reminded himself that his grandmother had been very old, and suffered from Alzheimer's for the past three years, maybe longer. It was her time. Arnold couldn't help feeling, though, as if he'd lost another mother.

He walked off toward the pond with his hands in his pockets. He'd gotten into town last night and still hadn't gone to see any of his friends. He knew he should go visit Gerald, but he wasn't sure he was up to it, yet. Either way, he was glad to be out of California. He stopped near the kneeling woman he'd seen before, pretending to admire a nearby mausoleum. She was pretty, with short blond hair that fell around her face in shiny chunks. She had a very far away look in her eyes – she watched the tombstone she knelt at with visible angst.

God, Arnold, he thought, walking on, what are you trying to do, pick up a woman at your grandmother's funeral service? He shook his head at himself.

" Arnold?" a harsh voice called, and he turned back to the woman. She stood shakily, squinting her eyes at him. " Is that you?" she asked. Arnold tried to place her face. She looked vaguely familiar, but then, he knew most everyone in this neighborhood.

Something about the careful shape of her dark eyebrows made him remember her in a rush: " Helga!" he said, walking back to her with a grin, " How the hell are you? God, what has it been – ten years?"

" 'Bout that," Helga said, smiling slowly. Arnold stood before her, awkwardly for a moment, before reaching out and embracing her. She seemed taken by surprise, and she gingerly patted his back and returned his hug.

" You look great," he told her honestly, surprised. The last time he'd seen her was graduation, he remembered her in the parking lot as he was leaving, leaning against her mother's car and smoking a cigarette, fighting with her father. He glanced down at the tombstone she'd been kneeling at: Robert G. Patacki, it read, Beloved Father, Brother, Husband.

" Your father," he said out loud without meaning to. He thought of his own parents' memorial, which sat out in front of the science museum in town. They could have no grave, there were no remains to fill it with. Helga nodded.

" He died a couple of years ago," she told him. " During heart surgery. He never . . . took care of himself. He was supposed to take these stress management classes but –" she stopped herself and looked up at Arnold. " I can't believe I'm talking to you," she admitted. He grinned.

" You're the first person from school that I've seen since I've been back," he told her, not sure what else to say. He'd always felt something for Helga, that she held some significance in the great scheme of his life that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He remembered bits of a drunken fling they'd once had – his mind had been elsewhere, but he'd saved an image of her, thrown back against the rose-covered wallpaper in the bathroom of Nadine's parents house, her eyes burning into his and then pinched shut with passion. He pushed his lips together now, remembering it. Maybe he'd missed something in Helga, a bit of his fate ignored.

" So tell me about what I've missed," Helga said, walking away from her father's grave, " What are you doing hanging out in the cemetery, anyway?"

" My grandmother," Arnold said in a sigh, gesturing the place where Phil still knelt. " Died a few days ago. We had her service today."

" I'm-"

" Don't apologize," he cut her off quickly. Helga raised an eyebrow – he hadn't meant to sound so severe, but he was tired of empty, self-conscious apologies. The same bull he got whenever someone in L.A. asked what his parents did, the same response to his answer that had him taking to lying and telling people they were accountants in Vermont.

She eyed his fingers, " You're not married?" He shook his head and gave her the same once over: no rings.

" Divorced?" they both asked of each other at the same time, and then laughed nervously. Helga shook her head.

" You'd think so, wouldn't you?" she said, as they started walking back toward Gertie's grave. " That Helga Patacki, black widow, would have left several men in her wake . . . but no. I've never worn white." Arnold shrugged.

" You've probably come closer than I have," he said.

" Oh, so we're moving already to the sob story portion of the conversation?" Helga asked, hiding a smile, amused.

" Its not quite that dramatic," Arnold said, giving her a look. Helga bit her bottom lip.

" You always had a great voice," she said quietly, casting a look at his grandfather, who was now slowly standing. " I guess I'll see you around." 

" Right," Arnold said, annoyed with her again. She was always so damned smug, so falsely sure of herself for the sake of appearances. Nothing changes, I guess, he thought. " Why don't you come to the Blue Marlina tonight?" he asked, 

" Gerald plays on Sunday nights – we could all hang out. Like old times."

" I don't know," Helga said, " I'm supposed to be selling my mother's house. We'll see." Arnold nodded, and touched her shoulder before walking back to his grandfather. He thought he felt her trembling.

" Can you believe we were children here?" he heard her call, and turned back, only to see her walking away. Maybe I'm hearing things, he thought, looking back to Phil. His grandfather managed a smile when their eyes met.

" Ready to go, short man?" he asked. Arnold nodded.

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Helga huffed and puffed her way out of the graveyard. Is this your punishment for my trying to be a good daughter and spying on your grave, Bob? she thought angrily as storm clouds gathered overhead. She remembered Arnold's last words to her before today – not that she'd ever forgotten them:

" You were my little dark cloud, Helga," he'd told her that night in the bathroom, his breath coming in exhausted puffs, his forehead resting on hers, more of a necessity than a motive of affection, " Always there to burst my bubble. I think I'll miss you. You were my foil."

Damn you, Bob, I know this was your doing, she thought in a mental snarl. Throwing Arnold in my face as soon as I stepped outside in this blasted neighborhood. She wasn't ready to see him yet. And now he wanted her to show up at some dive where Gerald played – ha! Gerald had always hated her with a passion, and thwarted Arnold's odd, masochistic acceptance of her whenever he could.

Helga walked quickly from the graveyard and to her small car – she couldn't wait to get back to the brownstone. I'll crawl under the covers and eat canned soup, she decided, depressed regrets rising in her stomach. I'll sell the house tomorrow and get out of town. This was a bad idea. I can't handle this place again.

She threw herself into the driver's seat and collapsed against the wheel, catching her breath. Maybe it wasn't that bad. It wasn't like he was happily married to Lila or anything. She turned on the radio and blasted the old 70's rock anthem that was playing on the classic rock station. 

I should have told him I was married, she decided. If worse came to worse she could always get Duncan to masquerade as her husband.

Helga considered calling Duncan as she drove home. She reached into her purse and fingered her cell phone. Maybe she'd call Olga, instead. Maybe she'd admit to everything! She laughed at the idea and tossed the little phone back into her purse. Miriam would probably answer, anyway.

So Arnold was still a looker - that was comforting. She wouldn't have been able to stand a chubby, balding version of her childhood love. But he would never again look so beautiful as he did the night she thought he was dead. They had been fifteen, swimming at night during a camping trip that Phoebe had arranged. Helga had been looking forward to the trip for months – to be semi-alone in the woods with Arnold, with no Lila or Ruth McDougal in sight.

The swimming accident was a careless jump taken over shallow water. He'd landed with a _thump_ instead of a splash, and Helga was the only one who noticed – Gerald and Phoebe had been smooching in the deep end of the lagoon. She'd thrashed frantically through the water until she came up with him, a limp and unconscious armful of dead weight, and she'd dragged him, sobbing, to the shore. 

He had a small bump on the back of his head, and his breathing had stopped due to the water he'd swallowed after going under. His lips were purple. Helga knew what she had to do. To finally press her lips to his again, to breathe life in to him like she'd mimicked during their _Babewatch_ scene together on the beach as kids. 

But she was frozen. All she could do was stare at him. He was the perfect, crystal vision of himself that appeared in all her fantasies – silent, sleeping, black and blue. _He's dying_, Helga had thought, unmoving. Part of her was screaming for her body to take action, to help him, even to call for Phoebe. But she seemed to have lost all control, all she could do was watch the glow of his life fade with the seconds, all she could feel was the salty tears on her cheeks mingling with the water from the lagoon that had already dampened them.

Finally she felt Phoebe push her out of the way. Her friend lowered her mouth to Arnold's and preformed the CPR like a pro, while Gerald grabbed her shoulders and shook her, asked her why she hadn't done anything. Helga snapped back to life as he shouted, and turned to see Arnold coughing up water, alive. All she could do was cry.

She couldn't shake the feeling all night, and went to bed early in their four-person tent, curled into her sleeping bag, crying quietly while the other three made s'mores around a small fire. She could hear Arnold's voice from the nearby campfire, alive and oblivious to what had taken place in the precious seconds since he'd gone under.

He always had a great voice.

As she was drifting to sleep, she heard Gerald and Phoebe go for another dip in the lagoon. She wished Gerald the same injury, the bastard. He'd never understood what she felt for Arnold – probably thought she'd wanted him to die.

Lapsing into another tiny fit of tears, she didn't even hear Arnold climb into the tent. But she felt his hand on her shoulder, and tried to stop trembling under his touch. 

" What's the big idea?" she managed to choke out.

He silenced her with, " Its okay, Helga," and her guilt was gone. He slipped an arm around her waist and she fell asleep with her hand in his, though when she woke up the next morning it was gone.

So that was the closest she'd gotten to a 'romantic encounter' with Arnold. Unless she counted the incident in Nadine's bathroom, which was anything but romantic.

Still, she thought, systematically reaching up to the sun visor for her cigarettes, it was quite a memory. She pulled her hand out, empty. So she'd quit. She kept forgetting.

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Phoebe followed her mother down the hallway to her old room. Curly was behind her, apologizing when the suitcase he carried brushed her legs in the narrow hallway. He was extra careful with her, lately. She hated when he got this way – as if he was handling a twice-broken china doll that he had been entrusted with.

" Here you go," her mother grinned brightly, unmindful of the circumstances and simply glad to have her daughter home. " Just as you left it," she said, like always. It was true – Phoebe's room was still a carbon copy of the one she'd left when she went off to MIT at 18. She smiled, remembering Helga telling her during their first Christmas back from college that Miriam and Bob had already turned her room into a trophy showcase of Olga's accomplishments/beeper storage facility.

" Hey mom," she said, opening the suitcase after Curly laid it on the bed, 

" How are the Patackis doing? I haven't seen Helga in years . . ."

" Oh, honey," her mother said, leaning in the doorway and sweeping her long, orange bangs off her face, " I'm afraid Bob Patacki passed on a few years ago. Something about a heart transplant? I haven't seen much of Miriam around here lately – I think she spends a lot of time in the city, with the older daughter."

" Ah, Olga," Phoebe said. Curly turned from the window.

" I saw her on the news the other day," he said, " I think she was saving pandas or something."

" Yeah, she's in the Senate now," Phoebe muttered, " Mrs. Charity. I bet she's hiding a lot of dirty business under all of that good will and panda fostering. Just wait – someday they'll do a Hard Copy special on Olga Patacki's ties to the mafia." Curly laughed, and Phoebe's mom clucked her tongue.

" Pheebs," she scolded, " Actually," she then said, " Your dad said he saw a 'For Sale' sign on the Patacki house the other day."

" Oh, no!" Phoebe said, surprised with the sadness she felt when imagining the neighborhood without Patacki influence, " I hope I'll get a chance to see her while I'm home, anyway."

Her mother nodded, " Are you going to visit your dad while you're here, Curly?" she asked. Phoebe and Curly glanced at each other. His father lived out by the pier, sad and broken since his wife had left him when Curly was just beginning college. Now Thaddeus Gamelthrope II was more of a burden than the kindly old fisherman Curly had introduced her to in high school. He drank too much. He sat on his porch and looked at the sea, muttering.

" I don't know," Curly said, rubbing his neck. " Depends on how busy he is . . ." he trailed off. Phoebe made a mental note to later tell her mother not to mention Curly's father again – his family was a real sore spot.

When Phoebe's mother ducked out of the room to go help her father make dinner, Curly sat down heavily on the bed. Phoebe joined him, and put her arms around her husband's shoulders, kissed his left ear lightly. She knew lately he was afraid he'd end up like his old man, abandoned, lost, his hands rough from years of working to keep his wife happy. Phoebe darkened when she remembered that, either way, this would be his fate – be it of her own free will or not, she wouldn't even be of this earth for another five years.

He cleared his throat.

" Did you let the lab know that you were leaving?" he asked. He'd put in his own request for time off at the cancer research lab he worked for – they were more than happy to let him have the vacation - given his situation, they of all people had sympathy for his wishes to spend as much time as he could with his wife.

" No," she answered quietly, " I'm not really allowed to leave."

" Phoebe!" he exclaimed, " Why not? And won't you lose your job?"

" I don't care," she said, hopping up and beginning to pull their clothes out of the suitcase and put them into her old dresser, " I don't want to work there anymore."

" Oh yeah?" Curly asked, leaning back onto her small bed and putting his hands behind his head, " Well, I never would have guessed you were unhappy there. You sure spend a lot of extra time at the lab."

" Its all-encompassing work," she divulged, hoping he'd ask her now what she'd been doing there, " Its – hard to get away from."

" I guess you should thank me, then," he said, rolling onto his side, " For dragging you back here."

" You didn't have to drag me."

" I guess not," he relented quietly. Phoebe felt bad for him – she knew she should throw him a bone and stop being so secretive. But she needed him to ask. It didn't count if he wouldn't bother to ask.

" Would you like to see the old gang while we're here?" she asked, sitting back down beside him. " Stinky, or Arnold? I'm not sure if they still live here – but it seems like the right time for a reunion, somehow."  
Curly nodded slowly, " Sure, I guess," he said, " And Gerald?" he asked, looking up at her, his gray eyes fiery. Phoebe frowned. He'd always been insanely, unrelentingly jealous of Gerald, and for no reason. Phoebe had never loved Gerald like she loved Curly – other things had been stronger – but only because she was more innocent then, and she didn't know what to expect from boys, from men.

" Why would I want to see him?" she asked, equally harsh, " I haven't had anything to do with him since tenth grade."

" Right," Curly said, " But before then – I don't know, you were _friends _for awhile. I'm sure there are a lot of people you'd like to see, Pheebs. But the truth is, other than you, I didn't have too many friends in high school. I'd rather just spend time with you."

Phoebe's resolve melted, and she laid back onto her pillows, reaching for Curly. He melted into her arms, a truce was called.

" Its been awhile since we were together in this bed," she said, stroking his slick, black hair into place. He nodded against her chest:

" Our first time together was in this bed," he said, giggling. " That's weird. Sometimes I can barely remember that – that we had a beginning. It seems like we've just always been together like this."

" Yeah," Phoebe said quietly, and he propped himself up over her, looking down into her eyes. 

" I remember, you used to put your glasses there," he said, pointing to the small cherry-wood table by her bed, " And I'd put my watch, wallet and keys in a pile there," he gestured to a place on the floor, " And we'd hide my boots under your old jacket in the closet downstairs, just in case." 

Phoebe laughed out loud, remembering, and he bent to kiss her. Her father was truly Japanese in the sense that he required all guests to leave their shoes by the front door. When she and Curly came home from school she would place her shoes in their usual spot – but as an extra precaution they'd put Curly's into hiding under the jacket with the rabbit-fur lining that she refused to wear, out of apology to bunnies everywhere.

" Pheebs," he whispered, kissing her neck gently. The memory of the feeling of making love to a young Curly in this bed came rushing back to her in a flash while his lips moved over her skin. The anticipation was nearly the best part – deciding in the morning that again they would take the chance of getting caught, setting a time to meet at the flagpole after school, and looking forward all day to finally walking home, arm and arm, giggling about their secret, about this private life that they'd created together.

Sneaking into the house was always terrifying – there was the chance that her father might have come home from work early, and would rise quietly from somewhere in the living room to catch them together. They would do away with their shoes and then creep up the stairs, as if they were sneaking around a sleeping dog, keeping themselves silent for the empty house itself, perhaps. When the door to her room finally closed, they would let out their breath, and fall together.

Sometimes they tried to have a normal conversation while undressing, to save themselves the awkwardness that came with the brand new feeling of being unclothed in front of another person.

" What did you think of Peterson's test today?" Curly would ask, his red cheeks giving his casual tone away. Phoebe would shrug and play along with the façade:

" I was pretty prepared for it," she'd answer, " But those essay questions always get me. The bastard. What chemistry teacher gives essay questions on his test?"

Then, inexplicably and without warning, talk would cease and they'd be lost in each other – the warm feeling of skin on skin that they'd nearly forgotten during lonely adolescence, the annoying yet comforting presence of the sheets that twisted around their limbs in unpolished movement, and, finally, the collapse afterward. Phoebe always loved the feeling of being pressed beneath his greater weight – even if she was a feminist, she felt so protected. Curly never forgot to tell her that he loved her before their nervous hands found their clothes again. 

Filled with memories and empowered by a sense of familiarity that she'd gained over years of going to bed every night with Curly, Phoebe flipped herself over and pounced on top of him. Curly smiled hugely.

" But your parents will hear," he said, winking. 

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

" Here," Gerald said, showing Rhonda where to place her hands on the piano keys, 

" Like this." He thought of the many times he'd used 'piano lessons' to seduce the woman of the week – or night – and realized how abruptly those days had ended. 

" Hang on, hang on," Rhonda said, impatiently pushing his hands away. " I can do it." Rhonda was a far cry from the giggly girls he used to instruct on this bench, though sometimes he was afraid she learned as little as they did while trying harder.

" Well, we don't have much time," he said, glancing at his watch while she tried to pound out 'Mary Had A Little Lamb' with some difficulty. They were on stage at the Blue Marlina, and the bar opened to customers in thirty minutes. A few regulars had already snuck in and struck up a conversation with Mark.

" Oh, its hopeless," she declared, slapping the keys clumsily and folding her arms over her chest. She looked at Gerald with a petulant frown, and he couldn't help laughing at her expression. " What??" she demanded.

" You're such a brat!" he said, grinning. She whacked him on the shoulder and he laughed harder.

" Its not funny, Gerald!" she whined, somewhat sincere. " I'm not good at anything."

" Come on," he said, rolling his eyes. He heard thunder outside and cursed the summer storms – he needed a big crowd tonight, needed the money to make his car payment at the end of the month. Bad weather tended to keep people away.

" Well, I suppose I'm pretty good at accessorizing," Rhonda sniffed, " But so what? I can't be some rich woman's personal shopper – I can't keep answering the 'Aren't you the girl from _Kamikaze Angels_?' questions, they're dragging on me."

Gerald nodded, " Good movie," he said, blankly. Rhonda whacked him again.

" Hey!" he said, " What was that for?"

" You're not listening to me!" she said, " I need a career change." He put his finger on her forehead.

" Let me think." She slapped his hand away.

" What about something out of the country?" she suggested, kicking the toe of her boot on the floor. " I could like . . . translate for some French countess or something."

" Do you speak French?" Gerald asked. Rhonda made a face.

" See!" she said, " There's nothing."

" What's the matter with waiting tables here?" he asked. " You make good money. You're popular with the customers."

" No offense," Rhonda scoffed, " But it isn't that hard to be popular with _this_ kind of clientele." 

" Well, whatever," Gerald muttered, tired of her leftover snobbism raring its ugly head, " Hey, remember when we were talking about Arnold the other night?" She nodded. " You're not going to believe it," he said, " But he's in town! He's coming to the club tonight. I thought you'd like to see him - maybe we'll all have a few drinks when we're on break, okay?"

" Oh, great," Rhonda said, fluffing up her hair, " Throw an ex-lover in my face when I'm feeling low."

" Come on, Rhonda," Gerald scolded, " His grandmother just died." Arnold had called him that afternoon, said he'd seen Helga at the graveyard and it made him itch for a little get together. Gerald wasn't exactly thrilled about the idea of seeing Helga Patacki, but he did want to see Arnold again – the last time he'd really talked to him was on the phone, while Phoebe was off on some Italian honeymoon with Curly, Arnold had called to tell him she'd gotten married.

His call had come only a few weeks after he'd found out Anna was pregnant with Timberly – and the news of Phoebe's marriage to Curly didn't exactly sweeten the deal. Of course, Arnold couldn't have known that his life was already somewhat and recently wrecked. He had just wanted to the be one to break it to him gently. Only Arnold knew what a hard time Gerald had breaking it off with Phoebe, even while he acted as if he were doing himself a favor.

" Shit man," Gerald remembered sitting on the end of his ratty old sofa, chain smoking with the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. The ashtray was over flowing, the record player was skipping.

" I went to the wedding," Arnold admitted, " I'm sorry I didn't call you before. I just . . . wanted to make sure she actually went through with it?"

" Hey," Gerald scoffed, " Its no surprise to me. They were like Siamese twins ever since we were seventeen. The little science nerd buddies. Shit."

" Yeah . . ." Arnold had said, and Gerald could sense he was uncomfortable. They hadn't spoke in ages, he had been surprised as hell to hear his former best friend's voice on the other line. " I saw Helga at the wedding," he added.

" Oh hell," Gerald said with a laugh, " She the same nightmare she was in high school?"

" Not really," Arnold had said quietly, " She was sort of subdued. She came alone. I went over to talk to her at one point – she was a total smart ass, of course. She seemed . . . lonely, though."

" What about you, man?" Gerald had asked, hoping they could trade sob stories. " You got somebody?"

" Actually – maybe," Arnold had stuttered with a laugh, " I met someone at the wedding. A friend of Phoebe's named Wendy. She's a marine biologist. Real cute – no makeup, even."

" That's cool, Arnold," Gerald had muttered, the company-in-misery he was looking for lost, " That's real cool."

What about you? Arnold had asked. Gerald thought about telling him – I got some shrew waitress pregnant, and she wants to have the baby. Child support checks and visitation rights, no hoaky marriage required. I'm gonna be a father – sort of.

" I'm doing alright for myself," he'd bluffed, " Got a few prospects here and there – doing alright. You know how it goes."

" Okay," Gerald said, overcome by memories of his great downfall and trying to snap out of it, " Lessons over for the day. I gotta warm up." Rhonda scowled and went off to go tie on her apron and get ready to start her cocktail waitress stint. 

" About Arnold," she said as she was walking off, " He's not some big time movie producer now, is he? He's not going to ironically offer me a pity role as an extra, right?"

" Hell no, girl," Gerald said, waving her off, " He's a starving artist, through and through. Waiting on the scum of the movie business, just like you waiting on the scum of Brooklyn here."

" Hey!" one of the customers called from the bar as Rhonda walked off, satisfied, " I resent that!" He and Mark burst into laughter. 

Gerald got back to the piano bench, sat down and felt the familiar flush of air as his weight pushed the cushion into its usual groove. 

Arnold hadn't found out about Timberly for another couple of years after that phone call. He'd been in town, visiting his grandparents, and passed by Gerald on one of his fatherly visits, pushing Timberly's swing in the park.

He'd walked over, knowingly, letting Gerald ignore him for a moment.

" Hey," he'd began, simply.

" Hey."

" She's cute," he'd said, " She looks like you." Gerald nodded, and continued to push his daughter. They left it at that. Arnold had always been good about that kind of stuff. He never rubbed it in. 

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Arnold was lying on his bed, looking up at the clouds. He remembered hours spent here as a kid, then as a teenager, dreaming up adventures, and then romantic fantasies. Man, his daydreams. Where had they gotten him? Maybe nowhere, but he did believe that they helped him maintain his sanity.

He had called Gerald and made plans to meet him that night at the bar where he worked. And Helga was coming – God. He couldn't believe he'd seen her like that in the cemetery. Maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. 

Helga. He'd dreamt once as a kid that he had married her. Hmph. He felt sorry for any man who went to the altar with Helga Patacki. He rolled over onto his side, and heard a knock on his door.

" Come in," he called, figuring it was Phil calling him for dinner. Instead, in walked an Asian woman in a black t-shirt and jeans. She folded her arms across her chest and regarded him critically.

" You bum," she said.

" Where are your glasses?" he asked. He hadn't seen Phoebe since her wedding. And come to think of it – she hadn't been wearing them then, either. Heck, hadn't she gotten contacts in high school? But for some reason – in this room, a piece of the past, Phoebe Heyerdahl should be wearing glasses.

" Oh, I don't know," she said, walking across the room and eyeing the décor, " In a keepsake box of my mother's, somewhere."

" Pheebs," he said, starting to get up. She beat him to it and sat down on the bed next to him, hugged him from there. He squeezed her shoulders.

" You feel thin," he told her, sitting back and having a look at her.

" Yeah," she said, looking up at his skylights. " I'm dying."

" What?" he couldn't help laughing. Ludicrous.

" No, not at the moment actually," she said, " And I doubt my weight has anything to do with that, yet. But I am." She looked him in the eye, and then collapsed backwards onto his bed, folding her hands neatly on her small stomach, looking upward.

" Phoebe –"

" Actually, I don't want to talk about it," she said certainly, shutting her eyes. " I just wanted you to know, because no one else does."

" What about Curly?" he asked, still assuming that she was joking. Phoebe had grown a macabre sense of humor as they'd gotten older. " Where is he? What are you doing here, by the way?"

" In the order that you asked," she said with a half-smile, sitting up on her elbows, " Yes, he knows. Hell, me having cancer is the thematic statement of his life. And he's downstairs. Talking to your grandfather. I'm here because – well. Because he brought me."

" Cancer – what?" 

" I'm sorry about your grandmother," she said, laying a hand on his.

" Don't apologize," he said. It was all he could come up with. Phoebe looked at him with her chocolate eyes, and he knew she was telling the truth. And so they both sat still and quiet for awhile, letting it sink in. 

Arnold remembered watching Phoebe at her wedding, dancing with her father to 'Some Enchanted Evening'. Curly had been so taken with her that day, as always. Phoebe and her sleek, no frills gown, her non-denominational ceremony with the Buddhist monk's blessing, the magnolia bouquet imported from Georgia. He remembered her carefree laughter then, and the sad, mourning songs from the Japanese video games of his youth played in his mind.

Downstairs he could hear Curly's self-conscious laughter and Phil's voice, jaunty again. Above them the clouds still moved across the late afternoon sky, silent.

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Helga was the last one to arrive. That was the way it was, with her. It was after ten o'clock, and the Blue Marlina was just beginning to get crowded on the balmy summer night. She carried with her a Sprite bottle filled with Vodka, a single, green jolly rancher stuck to the bottom. 

She'd forgotten her purse. She pushed her way into the club and spotted Arnold and Phoebe sitting near the stage with – God, was that Curly Gamelthrope? She remembered in a flash that Phoebe had married him. But wait – Phoebe? Phoebe was here?

Gerald was on stage playing piano while a slightly-off key and more than slightly overweight woman in a white blouse sang. 

" Nobody loves you like I do," she belted, trying to seem professional. Helga made a U-turn and escaped into the bathroom. 

She put her hands on the counter near the sink and looked at herself in the huge vanity mirror. She wasn't looking too bad this evening. Duncan often told her she was beautiful, but she was reluctant to believe him. Her nose was a little too big. Her hair sometimes looked like straw. She pushed it off her face now, felt sweat gathering on her upper lip. Wondered why she was putting herself through this. Wondered if any of the others felt trapped again, just being in this town.

The door to the ladies room opened, and a woman with short black hair walked in with a serving tray. She set the tray on the counter near the sink and disappeared into a stall. Helga thought she looked familiar. She turned the cold water on and reached down into the sink, cupping it in her hands. About to splash it onto her face, she paused when she realized it would ruin her makeup. She un-cupped her hands and let the cool water fall back into the sink and run down the drain.

A toilet flushed and out came the black-haired woman. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the restroom, but Helga was almost sure that she knew her. She watched her out of the corner of her eye as she washed her hands. The woman shot Helga an annoyed look, and she realized with a short breath who she was looking at.

" Yes!" she exclaimed, grabbing her tray, " I'm Rhonda Lloyd. Behold – a former actress waiting tables in a dive. Ta-da! Don't you feel better about your own pathetic life now?" She glared.

" Rhonda?"

" Oh my God," she dropped her tray and clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes bursting in saucer shapes. " Helga Patacki! Shit!"

" Well," Helga said, feeling cool relief sweep over her. Rhonda was right – she did feel better about herself, seeing the former prima donna in an apron and hoop earrings, taking drink orders at the bar her parents had once routinely shuddered at as they drove past. She smiled smugly, " I'll be God-dammed."

" You know," Rhonda said, picking up her tray and shooting back, " Arnold is out there. Arnold – from high school."

" No duh, Rhonda," Helga spat back, retreating to her fourth grade vernacular, " He invited me." She almost stuck out her tongue.

" Well, what are you waiting for?" Rhonda asked, raising an eyebrow, " He's right out there. I can show you," she offered.

" I'm just – powdering my nose," Helga mumbled. Rhonda looked at her in the mirror. Next to Rhonda – even this table-serving, poverty-stricken version of Rhonda, Helga wasn't sure she looked so great anymore.

" Nice shirt," she said, and Helga couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic or not. She just nodded, and stared at her reflection.

" So you're waiting tables," she said, stalling.

" And I guess you're a brain surgeon," Rhonda challenged fiercely.

" Kind of," Helga muttered, " I'm a psychologist."

" Well," Rhonda said, pursing her lips and admiring her still-beautiful reflection beside Helga's. " I guess I should call you _Doctor_ Patacki, then."

" If you want," Helga said, touching her face and wondering if those were dark circles or just shadows under her eyes. " Not many people do. I don't think I exude that doctor-ish demand for respect."

" Too bad," Rhonda chided, " You must have been in school for a long time."

" I paid my dues."

" Good to know," Rhonda said, grabbing Helga's shoulders and turning her toward the door, " Now c'mon," she said, pressing the slightly damp tray to her back and pushing her forward, " Your party awaits."

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Phoebe watched him onstage while Arnold talked to her about the merits of action films. Curly was specially conscious of this, and he paid more attention to her than usual in her admiration's wake, stroking her hand on the table. Phoebe pulled it into her lap, annoyed. She didn't want to be coaxed back. Who was to say that she was even straying? She was just looking.

Gerald wasn't singing, just quietly playing the piano. He wasn't looking at her, just the occasional glance toward the back of the bar. Phoebe had already checked his field of vision out and found no hussy waiting in the wings. Maybe he'd changed his ways. Ha.

" Phoebe!" she heard a squeal zoning toward her and looked up to see Rhonda Lloyd, life-size and grinning as if she were happy to see her, heading for their table with a frigid looking Helga in tow.

" Hey," Phoebe managed, standing and giving Rhonda an awkward hug. She felt Curly stiffen beside her – he hated stuff like this, reunions. Phoebe pretended to enjoy it, to spite him. " Helga," she said, shaking her head at her former best friend.

" Pheebs," Helga muttered with a suppressed smile, and the girls broke their stances and bent to embrace each other. Helga's hug felt more natural, and Phoebe squeezed her shoulder and smelled her hair. Same old watermelon kid's shampoo. The girl had sworn by it since tenth grade.

" God," Phoebe said, standing back, " You look great." Arnold stood behind her and put his hands neatly in his pockets.

" I already told her so," he said, giving Helga The Look. Phoebe sank back into her chair – here we go again, she thought. She looked at Curly, patted his shoulder. He managed a shaky smile.

" Same old song and dance," she whispered, gesturing to Arnold and Helga as they took their seats, eyes on each other like a couple of snakes about to strike, fighting for territory. Curly nodded silently, pretending to understand what she meant. 

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

So Rhonda Lloyd was still hot, even in an apron and ridiculous hoop earrings. They weren't speaking to each other, so far – Arnold kept his eyes locked on Helga. He felt his insides quiver. He remembered that night in Hollywood, in the backseat of his old car. The stuff his teenage fantasies were made of. He could hardly believe it had happened, even now.

" He's good, isn't he?" she was saying to Phoebe. He snorted with laughter, looking at his lap. He knew she meant Gerald, his piano playing. He wondered, anyway, if he had been good. Rhonda must have had a thousand men. God – it wasn't like him to be attracted to someone like her. He looked again at Helga, who was chewing on her bottom lip.

" So what brings you back to town, anyway?" he asked.

" I see you've forgotten our conversation this morning," Helga said, narrowing her blue eyes at him, " I'm trying to sell my mother's house," she reminded him, making him feel like an idiot. Rhonda was standing, he couldn't see her expression without looking, and he definitely wasn't looking. 

" And Rhonda, darling," Helga added, looking at her nails, " A glass of scotch, on the rocks. Make it a double. And try to keep your saliva out of it, if you don't mind." Arnold had to give her credit. 

" Ah, you know me too well," Rhonda returned without missing a beat. 

" Would you like anything, Arnold?" she asked, " You still haven't ordered a drink." He glanced around the table, taken off guard, and noticed Phoebe halfway through a vodka Collins, and Curly, of course, overcompensating for issues with his father the drunken seaman, sipping on a coke.

" Um," he said, " I'll have the same as Helga," he decided, excepting her challenge. The first one crawling home stone drunk wins? Maybe they'd even end up in bed together. He had no objection to that.

He watched Rhonda walking away. Did she know his eyes were on her? Rhonda freaking Lloyd. Waiting tables in Gerald's bar. Too good to be true. 

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Gerald couldn't concentrate, but that was an understatement. He felt out of body; someone else was making sure his fingers hit the right keys, surprised when they did. Meanwhile, his conscious self was floating above Phoebe, maybe touching her hair, pressing its face to her neck.

All he could think about was early high school, when they began to trust each other in small ways with intimacy. Gerald had never done more than kiss her, but somehow Phoebe's kisses were sexier and more exciting than the millions of pretzel shapes women had twisted themselves into in bed with him in his adult years. Sexier than the homecoming queen he'd left her for, and maybe even that one time with the Laker's cheerleader at the Halloween party.

Maybe what he missed most of all was the innocence. Walking with Phoebe to the movie theater through the bad part of town, knowing he would protect her, come what may. She always cried at certain movie moments, but not the sappy ones that got most people. No, Phoebe cried at the subtleties – a lone golden retriever walking lost through a corpse-strewn battle field, a child feeling remorse after squashing a lightening bug.

He finished his set and took his modest bow while the owner's daughter, chubby Patrice, waved graciously to the crowd. Gerald wanted to push her off the stage. Her voice was flat and self-important – he missed Laurel, the woman in her mid-forties who sang from her soul, who let her dead teenage son and wrecked marriage pour out subconsciously in every haunting blues lullaby. She'd left with the other talent when the place had started going under.

" Phoebe," he said casually, walking off the stage and nodding to her, " Hey, what's up?" He couldn't come up with anything better – not with Curly drilling a hole in his forehead with his glare. That Curly – who knew what he was capable of. Gerald knew he'd have to watch his step around ole' 'ball monitor', as they'd teasingly called him in junior high.

" Curly," he said, turning to her husband and pursing his lips, " You look good, man," he extended an arm and Curly briefly shook it.

" Yeah, you too," he lied. Gerald had meant what he'd said, though – Curly looked different, had ever since Phoebe gave him the time of day. She could do that to a man, old Heyerdahl. He looked back to her – she was dressed simply, as always, in a feminine t-shirt and jeans. No makeup, just those dark, almond eyes and that perfect little mouth, poised to strike. She still hadn't spoken.

" Gerald," she finally said, " Its been . . . awhile." She looked bored. He didn't blame her. She was probably rolling with laughter inside – he'd left her, genius scientist, to pursue a life here, in the dank corners of their childhood neighborhood? Ha. He nearly laughed himself.

" Yeah," he said, sitting in a chair Arnold offered and casually performing their old handshake. " When's the last time I saw you? High school?"

Phoebe nodded, " And barely even, then." She was drinking a beer, and there were a few glasses of melting ice sitting empty around her. Hmm. He never would have pegged her as a big drinker.

" I guess we all ran in different circles by the time high school was over," Arnold offered, always the peacemaker. Gerald looked at his old friend – they'd talked briefly before he'd started playing, Arnold was worried about what would happen to the Sunset Arms after his grandfather died. Gerald hadn't said anything, but he'd wanted to chime in, tell him that he only wished his biggest problem was what to do with his coming inheritance. He and Arnold didn't have much in common anymore, to say the least. 

" That's true," Phoebe said, downing the last gulp from the bottle, " Where's Rhonda?" she asked, looking around. He saw Curly reach over and squeeze her hand fruitlessly, Phoebe swatted him away. He looked up at Helga, who, of course, had her eyes on Arnold's lap as she polished off a martini.

" Patacki," he shouted across the table, " How's life treatin' ya?" Helga looked up in surprise, as if she'd just now noticed he was there.

" Oh," she said, " Alright, I guess. You want to buy a house?"

" I wish I could."

Rhonda appeared at the table then, with a fresh beer for Phoebe. Curly pulled on his collar.

" Need anything?" she asked Arnold while leaning over him to collect Phoebe's empty glasses. Gerald saw his former best friend's eyes wandering over his currant best friend's body.

" Yeah," he heard Arnold mutter, scratching his head, " Another martini."

" Here, here," Helga chimed in, finishing hers in a dramatic swallow. They eyed each other across the table as Rhonda ran off to get their drinks. Always at each others throats – Gerald thought of the fourth grade spelling bee with a snort of laughter.

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

So they weren't having the life-altering conversation she'd envisioned. Mostly they were having an all night drink-off, and she was proud to say that she was winning.

Helga looked over at Arnold. She saw a tiny smile play on his face as Rhonda returned with their drinks. Intrigued, Helga lifted her glass for a toast.

" To old friends," she said, and Arnold brought his glass to hers, the even 'clink' their meeting made sealing the deal. 

Maybe the night would be interesting, after all. Helga felt drunk, but not in the sorry, lesser way that she did around Olga at her ceremonies. She felt alive, and pretty. He'd been staring at her all night. My, she thought, how the tables have turned. Phoebe tugged on her sleeve.

" Helga," she said with a smile, her black-brown eyes glossy. " What did you think of the music?" Helga eyed Gerald, who was pretending not to listen as he chatted with Curly about traffic in Manhattan or some nonsense.

" Oh, it was good," she bluffed for his sake. Gerald looked awful – haggard and downtrodden, and even she wasn't cold enough to admit that if she'd heard another note played while that whale belted out her song, she'd puke.

" Right," Phoebe said, looking at Curly, touching his chin. " Do you remember when we used to listen to Ronnie Matthews?" She giggled.

" We?" Helga said with a laugh, " You're the one that was obsessed with him. I couldn't have cared less about the guy." Phoebe laughed.

" I can't believe we met him."

" I was jealous," Gerald suddenly piped up, " Not that you got to meet him. But that – you know. You had a crush on him." He winked. 

Some nerve, Helga thought, looking at Curly. But Phoebe's husband was just looking at his shoes, not prepared to fight back. To him, maybe, Gerald was still the enormous football star who could whoop him after school if he looked at him the wrong way in the hall. Poor Curly. Helga had always approved of him as Phoebe's mate, always hated Gerald.

" Ohhh," Phoebe said, looking at the table, " I didn't know. Sorry for the emotional trauma that must have caused," she rolled her eyes. Curly smirked. Helga briefly felt sorry for Gerald, then got over it.

" I thought you might have hard feelings –" he began, but Phoebe stood up before he could finish, pulling Curly with her. 

" We should go," she said, pushing her dark hair off her forehead, " My mother is probably waiting up." 

" Me too," Helga said, standing. She wasn't ready to be left alone with Arnold yet – their meeting in the cemetery had freaked her out enough.

" I'll walk you home," he offered suddenly, standing on wobbly legs. Helga grinned. On second thought . . .

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been awhile since she'd drank that much. Phoebe stumbled up the stairs toward her bedroom with Curly's help.

" Baby," she whined, leaning against the wall, " I don't feel so good."

" Alright," he whispered, " Don't talk so loud, you'll wake your folks." He helped her into the bathroom, and Phoebe flopped down over the toilet seat, ready for the inevitable. She'd never had a strong stomach.

" I haven't had that much to drink since our wedding night," she moaned, making the water in the bowl ripple slightly against her breath.

" My poor baby," he said, stroking her back, " You were sick that whole first night of our honeymoon." She could hear him smiling – it was still a good memory, for him. He'd gotten to take care of her.

" The plane ride was the worst," she said, remembering. " In that tiny bathroom the whole time, people knocking on the door, thinking we were trying to join the mile high club." Curly laughed.

" We got to the hotel and you just passed out," he said, " So much for a romantic wedding night."

" I'm sorry," she said, thinking back. No bed had ever felt so good. When they'd finally got to their room, she collapsed, let Curly take off her clothes and rub her back until she fell asleep, which didn't take long. In the morning, she'd had a headache. They finally made love in their honeymoon suite that afternoon, while the tropical sun was just starting to dip behind the ocean, while Phoebe's head was finally clearing. 

" Curly," she cried, feeling guilty about her earlier thoughts about Gerald, 

" Hold my hair?"

After she got sick, he helped her to bed, undressed her and put her under the covers. When she said she was hungry, he went downstairs and came back with a bag of Oreo's. They laid in bed, eating Oreo's and looking up at the ceiling.

" We should have a second honeymoon," she said. He sighed.

" What did you think of Gerald?" he couldn't help but ask. Phoebe rolled her eyes. 

" Just a loser," she said, feeling a pang of guilt. " Nothing surprising."

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time he'd walked a few blocks with Helga, Arnold had forgotten all about Rhonda, who hadn't seemed as if she wanted to give him the time of day, anyway. Helga kept stumbling into him, probably on purpose, he kept grabbing her waist. She was a good-looking woman. 

" Do you remember Romeo and Juliet?" she asked, laughing. He burst into laughter just thinking about it. They'd kissed. Their first kiss.

" Yeah," he said, laughing. " You were all over me."

" I was acting!" she said defensively, and they both cracked up. They rounded the corner near Green's Meats and Helga broke her heel.

" Shit," she said, pulling her shoes off. " Pieces of junk. I guess you'll have to carry me!" Calling her bluff, Arnold scooped her up in his arms. She laughed, and put her arms around his neck.

" My hero," she said, giggling. " Seriously, though. Put me down, I can do it." Arnold clucked his tongue at her.

" Always afraid to ask for help," he said, placing her down. She clung to his neck, and he knew what she'd had in mind all night.

" Not true," she said, looking up at him. He bent his head and kissed her, tired of the small talk. He felt her sigh into his mouth, and was taken by surprise by how good she felt, wrapped around him. He had a flashback, that prom party.

" Hey," she said, breaking their kiss, " Come home with me."

" Okay." She didn't have to ask him twice.

~ ~~~~~~~~~~~

Somewhere in a more alert part of her brain, Helga was aware that she had Arnold's hand in hers, that they were heading back to her house. She would take off her hose and turn on some old seventies soft rock, they would make love and recover from their hangovers tomorrow morning. Was this why she came home? Was this really happening?

In the bigger, drunk part of her brain, she was only aware that she was feeling frisky and she needed to satisfy 'the urge'. They stumbled toward the brownstone, and Helga was vaguely aware of someone standing outside, looking up at the house. 

" Its for sale," she called, " If you're interested." As they got closer, she realized who she was talking to.

" Brainy?" Arnold exclaimed before she had the chance. He laughed and dropped her hand. Sure enough, it was Brainy, from high school. Helga had forgotten his real name, apparently, so had Arnold.

Brainy grinned slowly, embarrassed. " Hey," he said in his weirdly deep voice.

" What are you doing here?" Helga asked, annoyed. Way to spoil the moment.

" Just walking," he said quietly, " I walk past here – sometimes." He looked at his shoes. " Hey, Arnold," he added, resentful.

" Oh my God," Helga said, " I'm going to throw up."

" Helga!" Arnold scolded.

" No," Helga said, putting a hand on her stomach, " I really am." She leaned over the railing that held the trashcans and puked.

Straightening up when she was finished, she turned to see the two boys starting at her. Well, men, to be technical. But they sure looked like boys, standing there, in the old neighborhood, watching her.

" Look, Arnold," she said, putting a hand on her forehead, " Why don't you just go home? I don't feel – so good."

" Alright," he said, sobering up a bit, " I'll see you later, Helga. Give me a call." She nodded, and looked to Brainy, who was looking at her with his hands in his jacket pockets. He still wore glasses, he was very tall and then with light blond hair. He gave her a sheepish smile.

" What are you waiting for?" she barked, " Me to invite you in? Ha!" 

" Oh – you want me to go?" he asked. She groaned.

" Yeah!" she said, " Mr. Perceptive."

" OK, Helga," he said, with a small wave, " I'll see you around. I – I didn't know you were back in town. Will you be here for long?"

Helga sighed, and rubbed her eyes. I hope not, she thought. 

" You never know," she said.

A/N: Ahhh. I don't really know how I feel about this story. Right now I feel like its just rambling on and it needs to be a lot shorter – that's how I meant to style it all along, with short burst of POV from each character (hence the name: 'short cuts') What do you guys think? ~ Mena 


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